Word: busful
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...here I am, commuting by bus to and from my internship at the Sydney Jewish Museum, and pretty much anywhere else I choose to go. I’ve resigned myself to spending at least an hour each day on a contraption that makes maddeningly frequent stops and drives so fanatically I’m continually convinced we’re about to crash into a eucalyptus...
Over the last three weeks, however, bus riding has grown on me. I like watching the homes change from Bondi’s crowded cinderblock condos to Paddington’s stately Victorian terraces. I like cheering on the pigeons that must battle seagulls and egrets to secure their food. I like spotting date palms and bottlebrushes (a sort of cross between a corncob and dandelion) where I least expect them...
Most of all, I like the people. The bus gives me a sense of camaraderie with my fellow commuters. Here we are, pre-morning caffeine, all trying to get to our jobs. As long as I don’t open my mouth and reveal my “amusing” American accent, I am tacitly accepted as a Sydneysider...
...small blips in daily life that gently remind me that I’m from the other side of the world. Much more than the accents or even the Opera House, the most significant differences between Australian and American society appear in the most standard of routines. My bus to work, with its cross-section of the Sydney population, is a perfect example of that. I’m thrilled to be along for the ride...
...actually pretty easy,” Miede said of the service. “We waited two or three minutes [at the terminal] for the bus to come, and [on the bus] we had room to spread...